Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. But the aunt seized her in her arms and rocked with her. . She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. You mustn’t go clawing after a man that doesn’t belong to you—that isn’t even interested in you.
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